


as we grow older, the world becomes stranger

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Action, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Late Spring, 9:37 DragonThe journey continues. Passing over the Vimmark Mountains into Markham, Anders, Fenris, and the mages they protect encounter a squad of Templars attacking apostates on the road. Of course, Anders steps in.Of course, Fenris follows him.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 11
Kudos: 85





	as we grow older, the world becomes stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This one's mostly straight action, folks. There's some fluff at the beginning, and some hurt/comfort at the end, but the middle...is just Fenris stabbing stuff. Fair warning: it's going to look REALLY bad for a minute there, but as usual--happy ending, I swear. <3

The Vimmark Mountains are treacherous. Ordinary travelers go by the one great road cutting north through the Vimmarks to link Kirkwall and Starkhaven; that one is heavily guarded by troops from those cities and by Templars, and goes the wrong direction besides. Anders, after much thought, has directed their small party northwest, to circle north of Ostwick and bypass Markham, when they get beyond the mountains.

As a result, they’re trekking along a small mountain road, winding among the foothills of the great peaks. Fenris feels constantly on edge. Even this late in spring, snowmelt from high up in the peaks leaves the mountain streams swollen with flood and dangerously cold. The deteriorated road, although clear and passable, regularly cuts along the edges of steep cliffs and along the bases of unstable rocky slopes. The Vimmarks are often stormy, with sleet a regular feature of the weather.

But the danger goes beyond the landscape. Although highwaymen generally choose more well-traveled roads for their work, there is still no shortage of danger on this road. Wolves are bold and fearless of men here. Worse, judging by the two roving bands of darkspawn they’ve had the misfortune of encountering, Fenris suspects that there are entrances to the Deep Roads in this part of the Vimmarks.

The tiny band travels without much talk. Alina, unarmed save for a dagger, leads their pack mule; her Tranquility gives her the gift of enough patience to handle the stubborn beast. Libertas, when she’s not in Anders’ arms or balanced on his shoulder, sleeps the day away in her basket on the mule’s back. Anders, with the best idea of where they’re going, takes the lead. Brithari, whose nerves are turning to steel as they travel, follows close on his heels, asking questions about his work in Kirkwall. Lea, the youngest member of the party at nine years old, has discovered some well of irrepressible childish energy that manifests itself as a tendency to wander off the road to look at interesting things at every opportunity.

Bringing up the rear of the group, it’s usually Fenris’ job to retrieve Lea before she can heedlessly wander into a wolf’s jaws or off a cliff.

“The mountains are _pretty_ ,” she protests, as Fenris steers her back to the road again. It’s a sunny day, travel is going well, and they’re probably going to start descending from the mountains by the time the sun sets tonight. The good day has buoyed everyone’s spirits, Fenris included.

“And they can be admired _from a distance_.”

Lea scowls at him. “ _You_ need to learn to lighten up, serah.”

Having a nine-year-old girl with dirt smudged on her face look down her nose at him is a novel experience. Fenris looks back, unmoved. “And how would I do that?”

“He really _can_ light up, remember,” Anders says over his shoulder, a grin on his face.

Instantly, Lea breaks into a grin. “With your lyrium! Will you do it now?”

Fenris sighs. He looks briefly at the sky. Perhaps the Maker will offer guidance in this trying time? “It is no party trick.”

“Show me?” Lea begs, skipping a little to keep up with him. Fenris slows down a bit, keeping pace with her better. “Please?”

“Later,” Fenris says firmly, and that’s the end of that.

Lea has entirely forgotten about the conversation by the time they start their descent. They leave the Vimmarks behind, to the great relief of all. Even Alina, in her serene way, expresses approval of getting out of the mountains.

Here to the north things are a bit more well-traveled. The roads are better. Markham, while not as wealthy as Starkhaven and Kirkwall, can afford protection for its countryside. Though they’re not going near the city, there are plenty of places to restore supplies and make camps overnight.

Three days beyond the mountains, in the rolling forested hills outside one of the larger towns, they finally slip up. Exhausted, they set up camp too close to the road. It’s only after they’re settled down for the night and he’s on first watch that Fenris realizes they would be visible to anyone traveling by in the morning. Everyone else is asleep--to varying degrees of soundness--and he’s alone, by the dying campfire.

He’s debating waking everyone up and moving them down the hill and out of sight when he hears screams from the road. The sound jolts Anders into wakefulness, scrambling upright and seizing his staff, with Brithari not far behind, still looking half asleep. “Darkspawn?” she asks.

Fenris peers through the trees. “Unlikely,” he says. “We should remain here, until—”

“ _Help!_ ” someone screams.

“I believe that’s a child,” Alina says, rising calmly. Her serenity is belied by the intent stare she levels at the road, as concerned as it’s possible for a Tranquil to be.

Voices shout indistinct orders. Steel screeches on steel. Golden fire blooms along the road, light rippling through the trees.

“ _Mages_ ,” Anders says, and breaks into an immediate run toward the road, Brithari right behind.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , Anders, come _back_!” Fenris shouts.

Anders turns, only half breaking stride, to shout back, “I won’t leave them!”

Of course he won’t. _Of course_ he assumes it’s mages in trouble. “Stay here!” Fenris snaps at Lea and Alina, running after the mages.

Anders may have long legs and a head start, but Fenris is the better runner. He easily overtakes Anders in a few strides. He bursts from the treeline onto the open verge of the road and pauses for a split second to take in the scene, lit by discarded torches blazing on the road. In the middle of the road twenty yards away to the left, a pair of small children cowering behind a man with fire flickering in his hands, five Templars fanning out to surround them. In the other direction, much closer, a woman locking swords with a Templar, another moving to flank her. Further than that, a trio of Templar archers standing back, arrows nocked.

He wastes no more time. Fenris rushes in from behind, straight into the midst of the Templars advancing on the children and their protector, igniting his lyrium as he goes.

Over his head flashes a blast of frigid cold, one of Anders’ spells. Three of the Templars are caught in the blast, crying out as they freeze in place, ice pinning them to the ground. One of them, hit with the full force of the spell, glitters with a full-body coat of ice in the spinning light of fire and lyrium.

Fenris pivots to sweep his sword in a great arc through the three frozen men. Two of them merely howl in pain as he strikes them. The third explodes in a shower of bloody ice, crumpling to the ground.

The ground shakes behind him, a shockwave rippling under Fenris’ feet, accompanied by a wordless shout from Brithari. A crash resounds, as of one armored body hitting another. Fenris permits himself a grim smile: it’s good to have a force mage on their side.

As the earth steadies again, the two frozen Templars regain their balance. They’re well-disciplined and turn to him, advancing as one, even though they’re slowed by the ice. The two unfrozen Templars ignore Fenris’ attack, moving to close the distance on the mage, standing stock still in the road. He doesn’t move, even as the Templars draw their swords. What is this mage _doing_? “ _Burn them_!” Fenris roars, ducking a blow from a Templar.

An arrow whistles past Fenris’ head. “Don’t _even_ think about it!” Anders shouts. The crackle of ice accompanies Anders’ words. One of the archers shrieks.

He ignores everything in favor of the Templars before him. Even as the ice melts, he’s still faster, sidestepping a blow from one as he brings down a precise strike on one’s shoulder. Bone cracks. The Templar shouts, nearly dropping her sword. Fenris is already turning, lyrium letting him move faster than their eyes can follow, to land a solid hit on the side of the second Templar. 

This isn’t even difficult.

“What _are_ you?” the Templar woman in front of Fenris demands, slashing at him with a weak, one-armed strike.

Fenris twists to avoid the blow and shouts in pain as the other Templar lands a lucky hit to his thigh. He spins, snarling, letting go of his sword with one hand, and lashes out with the other at the one who’d struck him, clawed gauntlet ripping through the Templar’s armor with a shriek of torn metal and into the flesh beneath. The Templar howls in agony, dropping to his knees, chest cracked open.

Somewhere behind him on the battlefield Fenris hears a Templar thunder out a call to Andraste. A wash of terrible white light flares over the road and for a moment even Fenris’ lyrium flickers. They’re trying to cleanse the battlefield.

The last of the three formerly-frozen Templars staggers back, panic evident in his posture and the frenetic waving of his sword. Fenris takes a step back, enough to balance, and jumps. His sword comes down on the Templar’s head, splitting his helmet and skull beneath. The body crashes to the ground. 

Fenris misses the landing as his leg tries to give out. He staggers, pulling his sword free of the man’s skull. “Rest and be grateful,” Fenris rasps, dragging in a deep breath. The pain in his leg is bad enough that he can’t put weight on it. Blood is soaking his leggings.

One of the children screams. Fenris looks up to see that one of the remaining two Templars holding both of the small children by the arms, and the other Templar, helmetless, bearing down on the mage, face-down, unmoving on the road.

He grits his teeth, centering himself past the pain in his leg, and charges the helmetless Templar.

“Watch out!” the Templar holding the children shouts.

It’s just enough warning for the other Templar to turn and parry Fenris’ blow. The force behind the strike is still enough to send the Templar staggering. Fenris closes the gap again. The Templar’s armor shimmers blue in the light Fenris gives off, eerie shadows playing over the insignia of command.

“Give up,” Fenris grits out, bringing his sword down in a strike that would have felled a lesser man, “and I _might_ let you live.”

The Templar commander parries again, steadying himself, straining against Fenris. The next strikes flow into one terrible rhythm, the commander matching Fenris blow for blow. He is no weak fighter, but every bit Fenris’ equal. Neither can gain an advantage. The clash of their swords rings through the night, a familiar and welcome cacophony.

The commander cries out, some prayer to Andraste, and his sword flashes with holy light, and the force behind his next attack is something supernatural. It’s enough to put Fenris back on his injured leg and he staggers, guard breaking, off-balance. “May the Maker grant you mercy,” the commander growls.

“ _Fenris_!”

Anders’ panicked cry is the only warning Fenris gets as a sword tip punches into his unarmored lower back. A burst of holy white light erupts around Fenris. His lyrium goes out, pain surging through his body as the Templar dispels its effect. Fenris can’t draw breath enough to scream.

The Templar rips his sword free. Fenris forces himself to stay on his feet. The fight isn’t over. He tries to ignore the blood pouring from the wound.

The commander lets his guard drop, ignoring a foe he thinks destroyed, holy light fluttering around his hands as if preparing another cleanse. If he gets that off, the mages will have no protection. Fenris _won’t_ let that happen. He won’t let Anders be killed.

He summons all his willpower and swings his sword with all the force he can in a high arc.

As Fenris falls, dropping his sword and choking out blood, the last thing he sees is the commander’s head striking the ground beside his body. 

At least, Fenris thinks vaguely, the mages are safe. Someone is shouting his name.

He knows nothing more.

When his eyes open again, it’s to early-morning daylight shifting green and gold through the trees. He’s remarkably comfortable, save a dull ache in his back and the ever-present stinging of the lyrium brands. His leg doesn’t hurt. Bandages are neatly wrapped around his chest. Fenris blinks a few times and lifts a hand to rub his eyes.

“Hello there, sleepyhead,” Anders says.

Fenris turns his head to the side, looking. Anders appears not to have slept, pupils blown a little as if he’s drunk too many lyrium potions, dark circles under his eyes, hair and clothes in disarray, dried blood on his hands and hems of his sleeves. But his mouth curves in a tired smile.

“Did I die?” Fenris asks.

“In the most technical sense of the term, no,” Anders says. “Your heart didn’t stop beating. It was a near thing, though.”

Slowly, Fenris sits up, wincing at every twinge of pain and stiffness. “I should not have turned my back on the Templar.”

“To be _correct_ ,” Anders says sharply, “you should have _been wearing armor on your back_.”

“Too much weight,” Fenris says. “I have never been struck in the back until now.”

Anders positively glares at him. “That would be because you always had another fighter to watch your back. You don’t have that anymore, Fenris. You can’t just sprint into the thick of things.”

“Someone has to,” Fenris says. He holds out his hand. Anders takes it and Fenris feels him trembling. Just how much lyrium did Anders drink to keep Fenris alive? “I cannot allow you on the front lines of a battle.”

“And I can’t allow _you_ to get yourself killed,” Anders says. He squeezes Fenris’ hand tight and his voice cracks. “I…have no idea what I’d do without you.”

“You’re a competent warrior in your own right,” Fenris points out.

“That’s not what I mean.” Anders takes a deep breath, as if to continue, but shakes his head and stops. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t know if you missed it, Fenris, but…”

With a slight flinch as the motion tugs at his injured back, Fenris pulls Anders closer. He presses their foreheads together. “You must realize I throw myself into the fight to protect you,” Fenris says softly, “because I also have no idea what I would do without _you_.”

Though Fenris could wish for a little more time, they don’t have that luxury. Now that he’s up and able to walk—albeit with a great deal of wincing—they need to pack and get moving. The bodies have been pulled from the road and buried, but it’s wise for them not to be here. Alina has already charted a course cutting across country, using a rough map the other mages brought.

They’ve been joined by all four mages, who survived the fight intact. Maris, a spry old Knight-Enchanter who’d once been allowed to fight beside Templars when she was young; Bertrand, a young man of fifteen not past his Harrowing; and two very small children, Eli and Alain, who Lea has already taken under her worldly and experienced wing. It doubles their small company in size. Fenris almost immediately gets a headache from the thought of looking after two more small children, but Maris has already put herself in charge of managing them. He has no need to worry.

As they set off again, now following Alina with the map through a tree-studded field, Lea falls back to walk very quietly beside Fenris. She doesn’t say anything for several long minutes, and then looks up at him. “You’re all right?”

“Anders did his job well,” Fenris says. “I will be fine.”

“Good,” Lea says. She looks down again, kicking at the tall grass. “I saw it all.”

“You were supposed to stay away from the fighting,” Fenris says.

Lea nods. “I know,” she says. “But I wanted to see.”

Fenris plays through the fight again in his head, imagining it from the perspective of a child. It must have seemed a blur of blood and fear to her. And in the middle of it, there he had been, a violent wraith, hacking Templars to pieces and ripping open their bodies with his hands. He’s been told before that he looks like a monster on the battlefield. “I hope I did not…frighten you.”

“I was just scared of the Templars,” Lea says softly. She reaches up and takes his hand, heedless of his sharp gauntlet. “You were really brave.”

Fenris blinks, startled. “It was a necessity.”

“Everyone’s scared of Templars.” Lea looks back at the road, then up at Fenris. “Except you.”

“I…suppose,” Fenris says. His words are stilted, but he hopes they sound as genuine as they are. “Rest assured I will keep them from harming you.”

“Thank you,” Lea says. Fenris expects her to let go of his hand, but she doesn’t.

He glances up to see Anders watching them with a faint smile. Anders nods in approval, then turns back to his conversation with Bertrand. Fenris stretches a little, the ache in his back finally starting to fade, and looks ahead again. Lea’s hand stays firmly in his.

There are more people than Anders he needs to protect.

**Author's Note:**

> he protecc
> 
> he attacc
> 
> **he need armor on his goddamn back**


End file.
